


To Each Their Own

by CheeseLotion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Victor Trevor Cameo, What Was I Thinking?, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:31:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheeseLotion/pseuds/CheeseLotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All good things come to those who wait. </p>
<p>Based of an RP on Omegle. My first and only time doing Mpreg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Each Their Own

**Author's Note:**

> DO. NOT. EAT. ME.

Sherlock knew what the odds were. He knew the risks, the complications, the changes. He knew it was dangerous and difficult and terrifying. At that moment, though, he didn't particularly care.

He sat on the bathroom floor, staring blankly at the tests laying on the toilet lid. There were four- it had probably been a waste of money, but he had to be sure. There couldn't be any mistakes or false alarms. He'd probably go to a clinic later to get an ultrasound and confirm once and for all.

Fear gripped him as he gazed at the tests and their results. Tiny pink plus signs and blue stripes and even the word itself blaring up at him, undeniable. He didn't look too long at that one, he couldn't even bring himself to even think the word, not after everything. He hadn't felt his chest constrict like this since the Baskerville case, but even that memory was blurred by the panic that was slowly rooting itself in his mind.

All he could think about for any length of time was _what would John's reaction be._

They'd been through several miscarriages already, probably more than they were aware of. Both knew of Sherlock's hermaphrodism, even before they decided to make their relationship a romantic one. John had supported Sherlock through every one, even the very first, which had shocked the both of them. But would he feel the same after the last time...?

No. Sherlock shook his head minutely, filing the thought away for later deletion. He would not think of that. He would not.

The biggest and worse part would be telling John, his very first reaction. Would he smile, like all the times before? Would he frown in disapproval? Would he be as afraid as Sherlock was right now? The only thing Sherlock was certain about was his view on abortion, which John would probably smack him in the head for even thinking of considering.

Not that Sherlock would consider it. He wanted this one, more than all the others, even the last one. This one he was going to have, even if he died in the childbirth. He didn't think he could stand one more miscarriage. It was either this one, or none at all.

The stress of thinking about it was making him nauseous again. His mouth watered dangerously and within a moment, he had swept the tests to the floor and was spewing what little was left in his stomach into the toilet.

There was a knock on the door and it opened slowly. "Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, stepping in. He gasped and fell to his knees beside Sherlock as he vomited, holding him steady and wetting a towel down to wipe his mouth. Sherlock leaned against John and sobbed, everything swirling inside him like a hurricane.

"John... I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," the detective whimpered, burying his pale face in John's shoulder. "I know we said... but I didn't think..."

The doctor picked up one of the plastic tests on the floor and stared at it in shock. His blank face and tense muscles in his shoulder was absolutely terrifying, and Sherlock cried a little harder.

After a moment that felt like a lifetime, Sherlock felt arms snake around his middle, strong sturdy hands placing themselves gently on his stomach. "Oh, love. Don't cry, it's not good for the baby," John cooed in Sherlock ear.

Sherlock held back his overjoyed sob and just huddled into John, letting his husband soothe him, rubbing Sherlock's abdomen softly, lovingly.

\--- DOOM ---

Upon Sherlock's request, John kept quiet about the pregnancy. They had both agreed, after the first miscarriage and the months of pitying that followed, that if Sherlock was pregnant again, they wouldn't say anything unless Sherlock managed to hold it through to the second trimester. It would be less of a hassle that way.

Unfortunately, this meant that John couldn't explain Sherlock's odd behavior to anyone, not for a while. Not even poor Mrs. Hudson, who was utterly baffled by Sherlock's snapping at her and then apologizing in tears five minutes later, could know for another month. Sherlock forced himself to behave on cases, which John was extremely strict about, but despite Sherlock's constant insults Lestrade and quite a few of the force were not as stupid as the man believed. Some of them gave Sherlock and John odd looks as they snuck out of sight for Sherlock to vomit or have a cry, and Lestrade pointed out to John specifically that Sherlock's hands tended to stray to his stomach when idle.

Only two other people knew of Sherlock's 'condition' (Sherlock didn't want to call it a pregnancy yet, not until he started to show; John figured that after so many miscarriages Sherlock was just afraid to admit that he actually had a child in him), and neither one could be helped. Mycroft had probably known before Sherlock knew, deducing it from his posh desk on the CCTV. He had sent a text to John a week after they found out, while Sherlock was sleeping: _Motion sickness pills will help morning sickness more than soup. -MH_

The other person was Geoffrey. He was the Holmes' family doctor, and had been with them since Sherlock was born. He was the one who had discovered Sherlock was a hermaphrodite, and he was always the first one Sherlock went to when he couldn't trust anyone else. He was an old man, in his mid-sixties now, with bright green eyes, silver hair, gentle hands, and a patience that was only matched by a tortoise.

John called Geoffrey the night Sherlock took the tests, after the detective had laid down, exhausted. The old man sounded gleeful and panicked at the same time and insisted that John take Sherlock to his clinic for an exam and an ultrasound the moment he woke up. John obeyed, dragging a sleepy Sherlock out of bed and dressing him in a t-shirt and a pair of John's old jeans that were too big now; Sherlock's suit trousers refused to button.

By the time they reached the clinic, Sherlock was wide awake. He held John's hand tightly, trying to hide his nervousness, or at least keep from throwing up. John could see hundreds of thoughts reeling in his eyes, every worry that Sherlock could come up with. And yet, every now and then, John saw a glimmer of something other than fear. Hope, and joy, and maybe a just a bit of affection.

Geoffrey was waiting for them at the door with a smile. He shook their hands and took their coats. Sherlock gave his up reluctantly, having pulled it around him to hide and protect his stomach. They went to a back room.

It was clean with white walls and a tile floor. Moniters and medical equipment lined the wall, and near the corner was a twin bed covered in a white sheet. It was sterile and bright and smelled of antispetic, but it still had the slight impression of a home.

"All right, Sherlock. You know how this goes," Geoffrey said. "Get on the bed and I'll get the ultrasound machine ready." Sherlock nodded and laid on his back, his head on the stiff pillow. He picked at his cuticles nervously, hands never leaving the stomach area. John sat by his head and stroked his hair.

"Relax, love. You're fidgeting again," John soothed. Sherlock put his hands down, resting them on his abdomen.

He lifted his shirt when told, exposing the blanch flesh of his stomach. John's heart leapt when he saw the very slight curve of a bump below the bellybutton. He was already starting to show. Geoffrey squirted a small amount of gel on Sherlock's bare skin. Goosebumps broke out along the fine hairline of Sherlock's torso, but Sherlock stiffened his back to keep from shivering.

Seeing the wand made Sherlock flinch, though. His eyes wide, he grabbed John's hand, and John could feel the tremble in his husband's fingers. He felt the same. They'd done this at least half a dozen times before, but somehow it was still terrifying and exciting and panic-inducing all at once. Geoffrey pressed the wand gently into Sherlock's flesh and made small circular motions around the bellybutton.

This part was the worst, looking for the baby. There was no guarentee they'd find it in the same place as the last. Once they couldn't find it at all, which had Sherlock near tears with disappointment. The last baby had been all the way to the side, scaring them into thinking it was an eptopic pregnancy for an instant. John held his breath, and Sherlock tightened his grip.

A small heartbeat thudded through the moniter's speakers after nearly two minutes. Geoffrey gave a chuckle. "There you are. Playing hide and seek, were you?" He turned the moniter to Sherlock and John's sight.

The background was black with fuzzy gray patches, and near the bottom corner of the screen sat the white outline of a fetus. John grinned, relieved, and turned to Sherlock. The detective had an almost unreadable expression, his shocked face that John hardly ever saw. His eyes told more, though. Awe and hope, fear and affection, and a certain determination all mixed in the silvery orbs.

"It has fingers," he murmured, his voice shell-shocked. John looked at the screen closer and his smile grew. Tiny stubs protruded from the ends of the arms, obvious fingers. John counted them. All ten. Ten little fingers. He looked at the feet. Ten toes. A little stub of a nose on the head. The tiniest lips. A strong, rapid heartbeat.

His heart soared. A perfect fetus. All theirs.

Geoffrey took screenshots and printed them out as Sherlock wiped off his stomach. He wrote up a prescription for the hormones Sherlock would need to keep the baby steady. They bid Geoffrey goodbye when he handed them their things. In the cab, Sherlock laid his head on John's shoulder, one hand in the doctor's, the other clutching the photographs and prescription tightly, as if they were his life.

\--- DOOM ---

For the next month, John hardly let Sherlock out of his sight. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock; it was more of a lack of trust with himself. After the last miscarriage, John spent many a night wondering what their life would have been like if he had been only a minute faster, and this often left him in tears. So he stuck by Sherlock's side constantly, just to make sure nothing bad happened to either of them.

He watched Sherlock sleep, the late morning sun shining behind him like a halo. For the first time in a month, Sherlck was content in his sleep. His mouth slack, eyebrows relaxed, curled up in the duvet like a puppy. Nothing was lovelier than Sherlock when he slept.

Sherlock opened his silver eyes. He smiled at John's goofy grin, the kind he had whenever he was absorbed in Sherlock. "What?" he murmured.

"Nothing. Just admiring you, love," John replied, his grin never leaving. He leaned forward and brushed Sherlock's lips with his own.

"Take a photograph, it'll last longer," Sherlock chuckled. He shifted onto his back and pushed the duvet down to his hips, looking at his growing bump with interest and something a little more.

"How're you feeling?" John asked.

"Nauseous," Sherlock sighed. John shifted forward slightly, putting his hand on Sherlock's bump. It was getting to be apparent now. Sherlock couldn't fit in any of his suit trousers and quite a few of his jeans. He took to wearing slacks with an elastic waistband now, and bought a set of new button-ups one size bigger. At the moment he was wearing one of John's t-shirts, which was riding up a bit to expose a thin band of skin.

"And the baby?" John continued, his hand drifting over the bump. Sherlock gave a small smile.

"Growing," he replied.

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock's stomach. "Are you being good for your daddy?" he asked it. "Hang in there, little one. You know how important you are to us, don't you?"

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked, chuckling.

"Letting the baby know how much we love it," John smiled.

"It can't possibly understand you. It has no cognitive abilities as of yet, and the words are probably muffled by the liquids inside as it is," Sherlock pointed out.

"Don't listen to him. He's just a know-it-all. But he loves you all the same," John murmured against the flesh. "We both love you, more than anything. You're the most precious thing in the world, you know that? As every bit as much as the one carrying you." His eyes flickered up to his husband. "I hope you turn out to be like him."

Despite himself, Sherlock grinned at his love. Loves, now. "I hope it's more like you."

"Hmm?" John rolled up the shirt and kissed Sherlock's bare skin. He ran his thumb down Sherlock's center line softly, causing Sherlock to squirm a bit.

"Intelligence isn't everything. I hope it's loyal and loving and brave. I don't think I could imagine anything different," Sherlock explained. He put his hand on top of John's, holding it flush against his skin. "I know you can't feel it just yet, but it's moving."

John's eyes lit up. "It is? What does it feel like?"

"Like something's popping right above my pelvis. It's strange. Almost ticklish," Sherlock mumbled. "I'm a little disturbed by it. But I think I like it."

A bright smile illuminated John's face and he kissed Sherlock's bump once more. "Are you kicking around, little one? You'll be a wonderful soccer player, won't you?" He laid his ear against the flesh, knowing he probably wouldn't hear much more than Sherlock's internal organs. He let his mind drift. He could imagine a little boy with dark, fly-away hair and bright observant eyes that never seemed to stop moving; a little girl adorned in blonde curls and a short, slightly up-turned nose and a contageous smile.

John didn't think his affection for his unborn child could get any stronger.

\--- DOOM ---

Sherlock decided he would be the one to tell everyone else, and he'd figured out a few clever ways of doing it for each person that he figured would need to know.

Mrs. Hudson was easy. All Sherlock had to do was sneak into her kitchen and make sure he was caught taking two of her cakes from the rack. She turned and clicked her tongue at him in playful scorn. "Sherlock, deary, leave some for the shop," she laughed.

"The shop won't mind if I take an extra one," Sherlock shrugged, taking a bite of one cake. "I am eating for two, after all."

A small clatter and a gasp made Sherlock smile. Mrs. Hudson starting squealing and hugged him tightly, then backed away just a bit when she realized she was crushing his new bump. She crowed and cried and asked all the normal boring questions, everything Sherlock had expected.

Lestrade was a little more difficult. Sherlock knew that the Detective Inspector wouldn't let him go on hardly any cases when he was certain, not after the last miscarriage; as it was, Lestrade wasn't calling Sherlock for too many cases.

Eventually, Sherlock just texted him.

Send us something. The baby and I are bored. -SH

There was a five-minute-long pause before Sherlock's phone buzzed with a phone call from Lestrade. "I swear to God, Sherlock, if this is some sick joke," the Detective Inspector threatened through the phone when Sherlock picked it up.

"I assure you, it's not. If you want to come over to be certain, make sure to bring a case," Sherlock said, and he hung up.

Lestrade was in the flat ten minutes later with a stack of cold case files, enough to keep Sherlock busy for a straight month. "All murders. Nothing that requires you to run around London and lose this one," Greg said with a wry smile as Sherlock flipped through the first file. He paused and bit at his bottom lip. "Sherlock, are you all right with this? I mean, after-"

"I'm perfectly fine, Detective Inspector."

If Greg didn't know better, he would've said that Sherlock had forced himself to say that.

Sherlock got a text from Sally Donovan the next day; _If you lose this one, nobody is going to forgive you._

Followed by a text from Anderson: _Do not lose this one, freak. He'll kill us._

"How sweet of them," John joked when Sherlock read the texts aloud.

Molly found out by accident. She was stopping by to let Sherlock know that there was a John Doe in the morgue and if nobody came to claim him, he could be used for Sherlock's kneecap experiment.

She found John typing in the sitting room. "Oh! John," Molly murmured. "Wh-where's Sherlock? I have something to tell him." She'd been stand-offish from John ever since the wedding, but John took it as awkward residual feelings toward Sherlock.

"Hi, Molly. He's in the bedroom. Sherlock!" he called. "Molly's here!"

Sherlock walked in, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I was sleeping, John. You couldn't have taken a message?"

"You've been asleep all day. Time to wake up," John bantered with a smile.

"Wasn't my decision," Sherlock grumbled, a hand passing over his now obvious bump briefly. "Oh. Hullo, Molly."

Molly stood in shock, completely forgetting what she came by to say, fixated on Sherlock's bump. "So... Greg was right. You really are..."

"Yes, expecting," Sherlock replied, bored (John shook his head; Sherlock was still avoiding the word even after having to buy a new wardrobe.). "You came for a reason, I believe."

"Huh? Oh. Yes." Molly shook her head to clear it and told him about the John Doe, eyes still straying to his stomach.

"Wonderful! Will a week do?" Sherlock asked with a smile.

"Um, I suppose," Molly shrugged. "Next Thursday I have off."

"I'll see you then."

Molly nodded and walked to the door. She stopped and turned to face Sherlock, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. "C-congratulations," she said, forcing it out. Sherlock smiled at her.

"Thank you," he said.

\--- DOOM ---

Dreams weren't something that normally bothered Sherlock. He was a lucid dreamer, and he hardly ever had nightmares because of it. That changed after the first exam. Sherlock had nightmares at least once a week now, every single one about the baby. It kept him awake for the night, and he usually slept through the morning when he did.

Tonight was one of those nights, John thought as he felt Sherlock tossing and turning in his sleep. He opened his eyes and turned to Sherlock, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Sherlock, love. Wake up. Wake up, Sherlock," John whispered.

"No... John... my faul'..." Sherlock mumbled. John's heart sank. Was he dreaming about...?

"Wake up, you're dreaming," he said, a little louder than before.

Sherlock twitched awake and stared around, getting his bearings. When he saw John, he gave a dry sob and curled into him. "Jawn," he whimpered, "Jawn."

"It's okay, Sherlock. It was a dream. It was all a dream," John whispered.

"No, it wasn't. It was a memory that was twisted into a dream," Sherlock said, muffled by the fabric of John's nightshirt. "There was blood everywhere, and... crying. The baby was crying, but it wasn't alive... Jawn, I'm scared."

"Hush, now. I have you. You don't have to be scared," John murmured softly.

"But I do! I'm afraid for the baby, John. Even if I manage to carry it to term, what about afterwards? What if it dies in birth, or I die? What if it's sick or something goes wrong? What if one of my enemies decides to get payback and take it and murder it?" Sherlock rambled on, exposing his fears in his weak moment. "Jawn, what if it doesn't like me?"

"Sherlock Holmes, you look at me right now," John said. The command in his voice made Sherlock back away enough to see John's face, even in the dark. "You listen to me, all right? None of those things are going to happen. You are going to carry this child to term, and have a successful birth. It will be healthy and strong and intelligent. If somebody tries to attempt to hurt our child, they'll have to get through you, me, Scotland Yard, and the bloody government. Our baby will be the most protected living thing in London. And it will love you, Sherlock, just like I love you. Do you understand me?"

With a shy nod, Sherlock replied weakly, "Yes, Jawn."

"Good. Now come here." John held his arms out for Sherlock to cuddle into, which he did.

"Jawn-"

"Shh. Go to sleep, love."

"Okay."

\--- DOOM ---

John perched the laptop on his arm precariously. "Sherlock, I'm not gonna do this if you're going to abuse it," he said into the camera.

"I'm not abusing anything. I couldn't find a shirt," Sherlock replied, rubbing his eyes and holding the sheet around himself.

"You big baby. Wear your robe, at least," John joked, shaking his head.

"It doesn't tie anymore," Sherlock whined.

John smiled to himself. It was true, the sash that tied Sherlock's bedrobe together was too short to go around his bump. It couldn't really be called a bump anymore; at six and a half months, Sherlock had gained twenty pounds and his belly was nearly forty inches around. The sheet bunched up at the top of his belly, looking a little like a white dress as it fell down to cover him.

"Now, turn to the body. Show me the wounds," Sherlock ordered, sitting forward.

John did so. It was a bloodier scene than most. Apparently, the body had been so ruined, it was virtually impossible to tell what had killed him. John swept across the body very slowly, making sure not to miss a single inch. When he turned the camera around, Sherlock was tapping thoughtfully on his belly.

"Hmm. Show me the shoes," he said.

"What?"

"The shoes. I need to see the shoes."

With a questioning look, John aimed the computer at the shoes. He circled around them and put it up close when Sherlock said to. He also showed Sherlock the floor at his request, and the doormat.

"Hand me over to Lestrade," he said after a full minute of silence.

Sherlock proceeded to explain to Greg rapid-fire how it was the brother and his boyfriend, how they killed the man over spite of getting an influx in the inheritance and then covered it up by making it look like a robbery gone wrong and cleaned up the doormat of their footprints. "His shoes are caked in mud, yet there's hardly a trace of dirt on the mat and the carpet. Somebody cleaned it up," he explained.

"How did you know-?"

"Well, it's obviously a two-person job. There are too many wounds. It would've taken two people to do that kind of damage to a corpse. He's not married, but very close to his parents- don't look at me like that, there are pictures of him with them all around the flat. And despite their efforts, there are three distinctly different footprints in the hall rug, all male. There's a portrait on the wall over there, the victim with his parents and a second, younger man. His brother, obviously. And if his brother had just happened to bring a friend along, said friend would not participate in such an act unless something was in it for him. Therefore it had to be either a boyfriend or a husband, somebody who would benefit from an inheritance as well, another reason why their parents would more likely choose the victim over the brother, since many people still don't accept homosexuality, particularly elder people."

Sherlock stopped there, something sparking behind his eyes, and Lestrade wasn't sure he liked it. "Just... go find the brother and arrest him. Get fingerprints and all that boring stuff if you must. Pass me over to John."

"Sherlock, are you-?"

"Please."

Lestrade blinked and gave the laptop over to John. "I think he just had an epiphany," he whispered in the shorter man's ear.

"John, can you come home? I don't want to have a personal conversation in public," Sherlock said quietly, gesturing to the area behind John. John looked over his shoulder. Sergeant Donovan and Anderson were whispering to each other, probably going on about how lazy Sherlock was getting. The thought made John want to yell at them; it wasn't Sherlock's fault his body wasn't built to have that much weight in the front. The poor man could hardly get out of his chair anymore without help.

"Sure, love. I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he said.

"Okay. Thanks."

John smiled at him and closed the laptop. He looked at the wall. Sherlock hardly ever got quiet like that. It meant that he was worried, which meant that John would have to chase whatever idea he'd come up with away and replace it with a better one.

"I, uh, gotta go. Sherlock," John said to Lestrade. The name was all he had to say. The Detective Inspector nodded knowingly.

"Go on. I think we've got everything here," he said.

A much-too-tense cab ride later, John was sitting with Sherlock on the bed. "You're late. You said fifteen minutes; it's been eighteen," the taller man said.

"Sorry. Traffic," John said. "What did you want to talk about?"

"John... are we going to have to home school it?"

"What?" John blinked, confused.

"The baby. It probably won't be accepted by its peers at a school because of us. It'll be bullied. I don't want that to happen, John. I don't want it to have my childhood," Sherlock explained.

John nodded, rubbing circles in the small of Sherlock's back. He understood Sherlock's worry, he'd been bullied a lot when he was young because of his height, until his sister started beating up the kids that teased him. But their child wouldn't have a big sister to protect it from harm and scare off children intimidated by a child with two fathers or a greater intelligence. The school system would only do so much, rules against bullying were still very flimsy.

"It won't have your childhood," John promised.

"So we'll have to home school it."

"No."

"But John-"

"Sherlock, bullies are a part of life. I won't have our child sheltered from all that but be exposed to dead bodies and crime webs. It's counter-productive. Plus, there's only so much we can teach it. Most kids that are home schooled don't go to college, and I assume that's what you want it to do eventually?"

Sherlock nodded. John pulled him down and kissed his forehead. "In any case, we have three years before we even have to start thinking about that. You can relax that idea for a while," he said in his ear.

"All right. Thank you," Sherlock whispered.

"Hmm?"

"For keeping my head straight."

John kissed his mouth and rubbed his belly lovingly.

\--- DOOM ---

"John, I need some new shirts."

It took holding his breath, biting his lip, and covering his mouth to keep John from bursting out laughing. Somehow an amused snort still managed to escape. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, laptop balanced on his belly, wearing John's oatmeal jumper. It wouldn't have been nearly as funny if it wasn't the jumper that Sherlock constantly complained about. Sherlock frowned at his husband.

"What? It fits, unlike everything else in my closet," he snapped. His phone buzzed on the chair arm and Sherlock frowned at that, too. "Mycroft, I don't want your stupid excuses. I want money," he said to it as he typed the message.

"What are you looking at?" John asked. He leaned over the back of Sherlock's chair to peek.

"Cots. I'm seven months along, we should start looking for furniture and things," Sherlock answered. Indeed, it was a website for baby cribs, changing tables, carriages, and cradles. He clicked the 'browse' button. He clicked on a red cherry wood crib. "I like this one."

It was a nice cot. It had high sides so the baby wouldn't be able to climb out when it learned to walk, and it transformed into a toddler bed and a full-sized normal bed as the child grew. "Right. That way we don't have to keep buying new beds every four or five years," John murmured.

"Efficient and it looks nice. I've always liked cherry wood. Sturdy stuff, carves beautifully, goes with almost anything," Sherlock murmured.

"Speaking of which, what color did you want to paint the upstairs room, that is if you wanted to paint it?" John asked.

"Green. It's a good color for congnitive development and is gender neutral," Sherlock answered. "And we should paint it. White walls are too bright for newborns, it contrasts the darkness of the womb too much and keeps them awake. We'll lose as much sleep as it will."

They still referred to the baby as an 'it', even though Sherlock had a hunch it was a boy. They wanted it to be a surprise, but Geoffrey still asked every time they went in for a sonogram.

"Right. We'll go down to the shop tomorrow and pick out some paint, then,"John said with a smile. Sherlock smiled back, but it faltered and John saw a flash of pain in his eyes.

"Sorry. It's sitting on my spine," he said, his voice wavering a bit. He set the computer aside and leaned forward, trying to reduce the pain. John ran his knuckles gently over the bottom of Sherlock's back. The man gave a sigh.

John moved around and kneeled in front of Sherlock. He put his hands on either side of Sherlock's belly. "Hey, little one. Easy on that back. You're hurting your daddy," he whispered through the thick fabric of his jumper. He smiled when he felt something move. "Yeah, you know what you're doing. Getting back at Daddy for being an arse last night to our client?"

"She was being stupid, it wasn't my fault," Sherlock hissed, a hand going to his back. "All right, all right. I did apologize, you know," he said to his belly. He rubbed it softly. "It definitely has your morals."

John chuckled. "I think you've punished Daddy enough. He was looking at cots for you," he said.

They sat there for a moment, Sherlock trying not to wince in pain and John talking to his belly sweetly. Eventually it eased and Sherlock could sit back again. "Stubborn little thing," he grumbled. "John, can I have some tea? And those crisps?"

"Tea and sour cream flavored crisps? Are you crazy?" John laughed.

"No, I'm pregnant."

John grinned at the word and got to his feet. "Of course, love," he said, dropping a kiss on Sherlock's head. Sherlock frowned.

"Hey! You just wanted me to say the word!" he pointed out with a huff.

"Yes. You haven't said it this whole seven months," John replied. He smiled. "It must feel more real, though, now that you've said it?"

"Hardly."

John put the kettle on the stove and pretended not to notice Sherlock rubbing his belly absently, mouthing the word repeatedly.

The next day John agreed that the mall would be the best place to go shopping; Sherlock needed new clothes as much as the baby needed furniture. So John didn't laugh this time when Sherlock put on his oatmeal jumper again over a button-up shirt that wouldn't button up.

As they walked around the mall, Sherlock tried his best to not blush every time someone stared at them when they kissed or entered a baby store. He wouldn't have cared before, but with the baby controlling his emotions more than himself, he felt very exposed and embarrassed. And the jumper was not helping.

They bought a half of a dozen shirts another size bigger, which Sherlock did blush about because they would fit Mycroft. The clothing store for infants was a little better, since Sherlock didn't feel nearly as fat looking at tiny shirts and babygrows.

Furniture was even better to look at. He managed to find a cherry wood crib similar to the one he'd picked out online, and was delighted to find that it came with a matching changing table and cradle. John called Lestrade to ask to borrow his car while Sherlock marveled at the set.

Sherlock had to sit down for a while after that, his feet and back aching. He wouldn't admit that in public, of course, but he made a mental note to ask John for a massage when they got home. John left him for a moment, a very long and self-conscious moment, and returned with two paper bowls of frozen yogurt. "I love you," Sherlock said as he took his bowl. Strange how he hadn't realized how hungry he really was until he had taken a bite.

Stranger that he couldn't even finish the yogurt with John picking at it when Sherlock pretended not to look. A month ago he would've devoured it in five minutes and then shyly asked for more.

"I guess the baby has a thing against frozen yogurt," John joked as Sherlock let him have the rest of his bowl.

"It has a thing against food in general," Sherlock sighed. "I haven't been able to finish a single serving of anything in one go. I have to take a break and digest it first. It's irritating."

At this Sherlock also realized he was having trouble taking deep breaths, but he didn't mention it. John put a hand on Sherlock's belly, which made him glance around to make sure nobody was paying attention.

"You're a very pushy thing, aren't you, little one? You have to steal some room in there, don't you?" John asked it. Sherlock groaned.

"Jawn, not in public," he murmured.

"What do you care about what other people think?" John laughed at the irony. Sherlock shrugged and looked around again. He didn't understand why he was so self-conscious, but it didn't stop him from blushing like mad when John kissed his belly and then kissed him.

He asked John to leave him on the bench. "Just go get some color swatches from that paint place you were talking about. Remember, green," Sherlock instructed.

"You don't wanna come?" John asked.

"I'd like to be left to my thoughts for a while," Sherlock explained.

John nodded and kissed his head. "Don't stay too long in that big brain of yours. You'll get lost in there one day," he joked before he left.

It was far from silent, but at least nobody was talking to him anymore. That was the least of Sherlock's problems, though. He couldn't find a comfortable position. Leaning back put pressure on his spine. Leaning forward made it hard to breathe. Standing was not going to happen unless it was absolutely needed, and walking was out of the question completely. John would have to haul him out of there in a wheelchair.

The very thought of being pushed around in a wheelchair like some cripple made Sherlock blush strongly. It also frustrated him. Seven months ago- hell, even five or six months ago- he wouldn't have given a damn about being in public like this. Now all he wanted was to go home and hide under mounds of blankets and pillows so the world wouldn't see how large he'd become. He wondered if this was how women felt when they were this far along. He also wondered how he'd let John convince him this was a good idea.

Sherlock glanced up and saw a woman taking a picture with her camera phone of him. He glared at her, and she walked away calmly. _Sure. Taking a photograph of a pregnant man to show your friends what you found at the mall,_ he scowled in his head. _"Hey, guys, look at this freak!" Get a life, will you?_

Just then Sherlock understood. He was a pregnant man, an oddity. Of course, that had never bothered him before, but Sherlock wasn't in control of his emotions anymore. The baby was; well, his hormones were, and they were telling him that this was unnatural and therefore something to be ashamed about.

With a sigh and a pained grunt Sherlock rubbed at his back. He really needed a massage. And he really had to use the bathroom- the baby was playing soccer with his bladder again. He scowled at the floor. He hated how vulnerable and needy he was now, how everything hurt and was hard to do. He hoped the remaining two months would be quick.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Sherlock took it out and stared at the caller ID. The message was just as stunning:

Congratulations on the baby. Let's have dinner.

Sherlock was so very glad he'd kept his phone on vibrate. The last thing his self-esteem needed was passerby hearing an erotic sigh coming from his phone and thinking it was him.

So the woman taking a photograph had been working for Irene, or doing her a favor in exchange for sex, at least. Which meant she was either in London or just awake early- it was nearly three o'clock and that would make the time in America around nine in the morning. No, she asked to have dinner. She was in town.

And she knew about the baby.

If Irene knew... who else knew?

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his belly protectively. John was right. Whoever they were, they'd have to get through a lot to get to his baby.

The words circled in his brain. Suddenly everything was very real. The baby and everything that came with it. It sat in his head like a package of stones. He was pregnant with his and John's baby, and in two months he would get to hold it and care for it. He was going to be a parent.

When John returned, Sherlock grinned up at him like a fool, excitement coursing through him like blood. "John, we're going to have a baby," he said as if he had just figured it out, awe and giddiness making his voice distant.

John grinned back. "I was wondering when you were going to get hit with that train," he chuckled.

\--- DOOM ---

The hiccups started almost immediately after Sherlock woke up. He was brushing his teeth when he felt the jump, and it nearly made him choke on his toothbrush. And then it happened again as he spit out the foam, and again as he rinsed.

"John, c'mere," Sherlock said with a smile when he walked into the kitchen.

"What is it now, love?" John sighed overdramatically, approaching his husband nonetheless.

"Feel this." Sherlock took his hands and put them on his belly. John grinned when he felt the jump.

"Hiccups?"

"Its diaphram is fully functional now. The lungs won't be far behind." Sherlock's smile lifted to his eyes, and John knew that smile. He was excited.

"It won't be too long now," he murmured, pressing his lips to Sherlock's lightly. He pulled away, patting Sherlock's belly sweetly. Sherlock kept one hand on it, even as he took out a tray of petri dishes from the refrigerator and set up his microscope. John had taken all his dangerous chemicals from him, and even though he'd pouted about it, Sherlock agreed that John had a point. Now he had to have Molly set up the petri dishes, though, which he was thankful she didn't complain about.

"Woo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson knocked as John put a cup of tea in front of Sherlock.

"In the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said softly, sliding a tile beneath the lens. He rested a hand on his belly, trying to steady himself- the baby's hiccupping was jolting his entire body slightly.

"Where did you want this damn thing?" he heard Lestrade grunt. he was hauling something up the stairs, probably either the cot or the changing table.

"Here, I'll help you," John said. He disappeared from Sherlock's view and he heard both men grumbling about the weight of it. He smiled a bit.

"Ooh, new furniture! It's so lovely on the box, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson crowed.

"It's even better once assembled," Sherlock replied. The baby hiccupped and kicked at the same time, causing Sherlock to accidently knock the slide out focus. "Oh, come on!" he grumbled. The baby kicked again. "I know it's annoying, but there's nothing I can do about it!"

"What's that, deary?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Oh, the baby has the hiccups. And it's getting irritated by them," Sherlock responded with a nonchalant wave.

"How cute!" She cooed and crowed about the baby's habits. She asked to feel.

Sherlock bit his lip. He wasn't particularly comfortable with other people touching his belly, at least if they weren't John. Molly bumped into him the other day and he had the sensation of bugs crawling on his skin for an entire hour afterwards. He ran a hand along the top of it. "What do you think, little thing?" The baby hiccupped again. "I suppose so."

Mrs. Hudson giggled happily and placed her hand on his belly with a butterfly touch. The baby was still for a moment, as if it knew someone strange was touching it, and then hiccupped and kicked lightly. It was more of a 'here i am!' kick rather than a 'hey, i'm right here!' kick. Sherlock smiled as he realized he'd categorized the baby's movements with messages and personality.

"Oh! Strong one, isn't he?" Mrs. Hudson laughed.

"We're not sure about gender," Sherlock admitted.

"Well, you have to have some sort of an idea," the older woman pointed out. She took her hand away, much to Sherlock's relief. He held back a shiver and readjusted his shirt.

A thud from upstairs made both of them jump. "I hope they realize they're right above that weak spot," Sherlock mumbled.

"Sherlock! We need some of your nesting advice," Lestrade called from the top of the steps.

"I am not nesting!" Sherlock bantered. He slid out of the chair and made his way to the stairs that led to John's old room. He made it halfway up the steps before he had to stop and ask Mrs. Hudson to help. "This is why I don't go up here very often," he panted as Mrs. Hudson put her hand in the small of his back to steady him. "I have a hard enough time getting up the first flight."

"It won't be like this for much longer, sweetheart," Mrs. Hudson reminded him.

Sherlock had to catch his breath once more at the top. "Sorry. What did you need?" he said, swallowing. He looked up and groaned. "No, no, no! The cot needs to be adjacent to the window!"

He entered the room and pointed out where the furniture needed to be. "It should be here, that way the light won't be in its face when it goes to sleep. And the table should be parallel to the bed. Less manuevering that way. No, the head goes against _this_ wall..."

Lestrade and John just smiled at each other and did as they were told.

\--- DOOM ---

"Hullo, honey."

Sherlock shuddered at the voice. He couldn't be here, could he? Wasn't he in prison...? Slowly Sherlock turned and bit his lip in horror.

_Victor grinned evilly, his monstrous malice obvious even in the dim light of the crime scene. Sherlock looked around to yell at Lestrade, tell him to do his job and arrest Victor, but he was nowhere in sight. Neither was anyone in the yard, actually; Sherlock never dreamed of a time when he wished Anderson or Donovan or_ somebody _was nearby..._

"So you think, that just because you've been separated from me, that you've gotten rid of me?" Victor growled, still wearing that smile that made Sherlock's stomach turn. "That you could get knocked up by some shmuck after aborting my baby?"

_"It was a miscarriage, I wasn't going to-" Sherlock began. Victor smacked him across the face, knocking him to the floor. He twisted so he wouldn't land on his stomach._ Save the baby _was his only coherent thought._

"You good-for-nothing wiseass." Victor hovered over Sherlock for a moment. "You're absolutely pathetic. You can't even manipulate me anymore."

He went to kick Sherlock, and the pregnant man turned so Victor's foot hit his spleen instead. He cried out, and the baby kicked inside him, protesting the harsh movements.

"He doesn't love you. That John character." Another kick, this time to Sherlock's ribs. He felt one crack and shouted in pain.

"He just wants you around to fuck." More kicking to the ribs and face. Sherlock desperately tried to block his aim with his arms.

"He'll leave you the second he gets a chance." Victor was kneeling beside Sherlock, coaxing his arms away from his face, only to punch him and split his lip.

"And that kid inside you? He'll leave you with it. Leave you to kill it."

"No..." Sherlock was crying now, sobbing. He wrapped his arms around his belly protectively, taking Victor's punches to the face and blocking any blows to his baby.

"You'll end up killing the poor brat. You'll forget to feed it, to take care of it. You'll get bored with it. One day you'll put it for a nap and leave for a case, and when you come home it'll be dead because you neglected it." Between every sentence, Victor punched Sherlock. Blood, saliva, and tears began pooling on the concrete below Sherlock's face.

"So I'm going to save it the trouble."

The gleam of a pocketknife caught Sherlock's eye. "No... please, no..."

Victor leaned over Sherlock's face. His breath smelled like alcohol and drugs, as it always did. "I'm going to cut the poor bastard out of you. Then I'm going to fuck a new one into you, and lock you up so you can't leave me ever again."

Something in Sherlock snapped. Maybe it was the prospect of losing another child, or being forced to miscarry over and over by Victor until he finally held to term. Whatever it was, it brought out his fight.

He squirmed and screamed and begged for help from someone, anyone, even Anderson, even Moriarty. He cried hot tears of desperation and anger, of a paternal instinct he didn't realize he could possess. More than anything, he wanted his John.

Somehow Victor had gained superhuman strength. He held Sherlock's hands down with one arm and waved the knife in front of Sherlock's wild eyes with the other. "Say bye-bye, baby," he chuckled. The knife began to cut through his clothes, and into his skin...

 

Sherlock bolted awake with a shout. The baby kicked angrily at being woken up, which made him hiss and rub his belly soothingly. He glanced around, looking for something to ground himself with.

He was in the sitting room, laying on the sofa, having fallen asleep watching crap telly. The sunlight poured through the open windows, a light breeze blowing through the curtains. John was gone, out shopping to stock up for the baby's arrival. He was nesting, too, in a sense.

Sherlock shut off the telly with the remote and rubbed his belly, trying to calm himself. _It was a dream, it was all a dream,_ he repeated John's mantra in his head. But it wasn't all a dream. Some of it was a memory, as all his nightmares were.

_Victor is in prison, he's in there for life this time,_ he reassured himself. The baby kicked as if to add its own opinion. _He won't be able to touch me ever again. And he won't touch you, either, little thing._

He didn't sound very certain, even to himself.

Slowly he hauled himself to his feet and wandered about the flat, fixing things as he saw them and eventually finding himself in the nursery. He stood in the middle of the room, gazing around at everything with uncertainty.

Victor in his dream was every single one of Sherlock's fears, and that terrified him. What if he and John got in a fight, and John left? What if he was a bad parent, and ended up neglecting or even abusing his baby for the sake of a case? He knew what John would say if he told him any of this; he'd tell him it was a rubbish dream and he should forget all about it.

But Sherlock couldn't forget his fears.

He sighed and ran his hands over his belly. He loved feeling it, even though everything else was in pain. It was probably the only thing he'd miss once the baby was born(besides John's doting over him all the time). He had no idea how long he'd let his mind drift around, fading in and out of the present. A knock on the door brought him back fully, though.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, hands still roaming his belly.

"I'm fine," he lied.

John's arms slipped around him, his husband's hands over Sherlock's. John kissed the back of his neck. "You're shaking. Have you eaten lately?" he whispered.

"Not hungry," Sherlock murmured. His heart started to beat a little faster; he hated lying to John. It made him feel absolutely terrible.

"Was it another nightmare?"

Sherlock bit his lip. John might not have been as brilliant as he was, but the man could read Sherlock unlike anyone else. He nodded reluctantly. John rubbed his belly.

Strangely, that helped Sherlock. His chest stopped aching and he felt less tired. John turned him around so that they were facing each other.

"Anything you're willing to share?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock looked at the ground, then at his distended stomach and the way it was cradled between John's hands. His lips formed a tight line. "Victor," was all he said.

John lifted his head to look in his eyes. "He's gone, love. Greg made sure he'd never get out of there alive," he assured with a kiss. "And if he somehow does, he isn't getting anywhere near you two without having to get past me."

A small smile played on Sherlock's mouth. He was so very grateful for John. He was suddenly aware of just how much he needed his husband. "Oh, John," he sighed, burying his face in John's good shoulder. "Don't leave me. Please?"

"Leave you? Why do you think I'd leave you? I love you," John replied, his arms finding their way to encircle Sherlock completely- quite a feat, Sherlock thought, as his belly was between them like a doorstop.

"I'm afraid, John. For the baby," he whispered. "I've never been so terrified."

"It's okay. I'm here, I'll always be right here, for you and the baby," John murmured lovingly.

"Good. I need you, John. I need you so much..."

John kissed him gently at first, to shut him up because a sentimental Sherlock was a crying Sherlock nowdays. It heated up slowly, building a fire in the pits of their chests and groins until they were begging for each other, stripping and laying on the floor of the nursery.

Sherlock was on all fours, letting John slip out of one hole and into the other agonizingly slowly, moaning and keening and belly swaying with every thrust. They came together and cleaned up afterward.

Later that evening, Sherlock deleted Victor once and for all.

\--- DOOM ---

They had a pretty simple birth plan. The baby had other things in mind.

Just after two in the morning, a week before his due date, Sherlock woke to the unmistakable pains of labour. He waited until he felt the second one, not wanting to bother John if it was another false alarm. Ten minutes later, he was cringing and shaking John awake.

"Hmm? What is it?" John yawned, stretching out.

"I'm in labour, John, wake up," Sherlock said quickly and loudly.

Confusion crossed the doctor's face. "Labour? But you're a week away..."

"John, please. Wake up. I need to get to Geoffrey's." Sherlock shook John's shoulder once more. "They're ten minutes apart, I think I might be in active labour by now..."

That got John up, rushing around, getting dressed and helping Sherlock down the stairs. They didn't bother to get Sherlock dressed; it would take too much time. John called Geoffrey in the cab. The old man had been asleep but he was awake and dressed when they got to the clinic.

Sherlock's water broke just as he walked into the room and another contraction hit him. he cried out and his hand went underneath his belly. He was overwhelmed with the need to push, but Geoffrey told him to wait. "You're not dialated yet, Sherlock. Hold on just a little longer."

"To what?" he growled, but a contraction rocked him again and he decided it didn't matter.

Then Sherlock realized something was wrong.

"It's turned the wrong way," he breathed. "It's on its side. I can feel it, it's not... help..."

He grabbed John's hand, and John looked at Geoffrey wildly.

"Easiest way would be a C-section," the old man said. "He's too far long to try and turn it. I'm going to give you an epidural, it'll help. John, help me turn him on his side."

He gave Sherlock a shot in the centre of the bottom of his back, just above the tailbone. Within minutes, the pain had stopped, as well as most of the feeling below his waist.

"I can't feel my legs, John," Sherlock said desperately.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Geoffrey's gonna use a C-section to get the baby out," John reassured.

"That wasn't in the plan," Sherlock protested, the medication in his system taking its toll on his mind. He fet dazed and a little afraid.

"No, it wasn't. We don't really have a choice," John said. He smiled. "We'll be meeting our baby soon, Sherlock. We've fought for it for so long..."

Sherlock put his hand on his belly, unable to think that it would be empty soon. "Yeah..."

He felt the tiniest pinch on the bottom of his stomach, but it flitted away and Sherlock held John's hand a little tighter. "This is going to be a bit uncomfortable," Geoffrey warned before he did something that made Sherlock's belly twist in discomfort. Sherlock just grimaced.

Barely, he felt something being pulled out of him; _the baby._ A moment later, he heard the screams of a newborn trying to clear its lungs.

"It's a boy!" Geoffrey announced as he handed the baby and a wet cloth to John, who proceeded to wipe the blood and fluid off the squalling infant. With Geoffrey's help, he cut the umbilical cord and as the old doctor took care of the afterbirth and sewing up Sherlock, the two new parents watched their son scream and fell head over heels in love.

"Let me hold him," Sherlock said, holding his arms out. John carefully placed the little boy in his husband's arms.

The baby's cries turned into snuffles and fussy noises. He opened his eyes and Sherlock smiled at the gray-blue color. "He has your nose," he murmured.

"And your eyes," John smiled. He hugged Sherlock and ran his hand through the baby's wet hair. "Seems like he has your hair, too."

"I love you," Sherlock sighed, leaning his head on John's shoulder. John kissed him gently.

"Love you, too. What are we gonna name him?"

Sherlock looked at the baby in his arms. "We could name him Hamish."

John crinkled his nose. "Why that?"

"Because I like it. And I think he does too." The baby looked up at the mention of the name and sniffled.

John smiled at his son and kissed his husband again. "Then Hamish it is. Hamish Watson-Holmes."

The baby cooed and snuffled at his parents. Geoffrey brought a bottle and Sherlock fed Hamish, and the infant fell asleep not long afterward.

For a moment everything was perfect.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Geoffrey is not mine. This idea is not mine. Sherlock is not mine. NOTHING IS MINE.


End file.
